Alan Luckett

My grandad's flat cap

Is a taupe shoreline.

His skin weathered like a cliff,

Quietly holding secrets.

My grandad lives in a

Small, beige, quiet, box.

The hands of a clock

Punctuate his stillness.

My grandad is not a writer.

My grandad is not an explorer.

My grandad watches the snooker,

And eats grey cod with boiled potatoes.

To hear the rise of fascism

From a childhood bedroom,

To watch brothers and sisters,

Whose hand-me-downs kept the winter warm,

And schoolyard teasing fresh,

Pass away one by one.

To have one's own funeral paid for,

As not to cause a fuss.

This courage will not drive a continental shift

But I pray that this courage is mine,

That his bones are my bones,

And that the only variable is time

To show the power in muted tones.